Be Brave
by Luke1
Summary: A oneshot three months after my novel, The Shadows Suit Me. Han helps Luke recover. Rated M because I can't watch my language.


_So, the plan was to write a shot story that comes after my novel The Shadows Suit Me, about Han and Luke, but written in first-person Han pov, as opposed to first-person Luke pov like the novel. I thought maybe I should use one of the challenges from the HanLuke yahoo group for it, so I chose number 34, and I know the "something odd" that Han finds among Luke's belongings was probably supposed to be something funny, like a sex toy, or like a naked picture of Han, or just something that Luke probably wouldn't have, like...um...a fuzzy pink bathrobe. But I'm the sovereign ruler of angst, and thou knowest full well. So this is a dramatic interpretation. And I'm not sticking to the time limit, just cause I want this to be longer than that. Just so you know._

* * *

Luke's out of rehab. 

I took him on vacation, 'cause Luke needs sun. I was real tired of seeing Luke sitting in the rehab clinic, watching the grey Coruscant spring from his window, and wilting like a drowned flower. He was getting worse in there everyday, though it seemed like his appetite might of been improving and maybe his ability to sleep soundly, too. But his hair was dull, his face was pale, his blue eyes looked grey, and his white patient's robes weren't making his fair complexion glow like they should have. I knew that though the clinic mighta gotten him clean alright, it wasn't making him better. Luke is a desert boy and he needs some sunshine.

The beaches and forests of the outerrim world of Ölon VI looked pretty good. There's a tourist colony on one of the islands, a place where me and Luke could rent a cabin in the woods and be secluded if that's what the kid needs, or walk into town if Luke needs diversion. I know that Luke was sad to leave his sons, and it was real hard for me to tear myself away from my baby daughter, but I promised Luke as well as myself that one week on this island would be better for Luke than a whole month in rehab. I hope I was right.

Luke looks tiny and much too thin in his black clothes, and he's skittish like a baby tauntaun, jumping when spoken to or looked at, suspicious and overly cautious to be out in the open. The ride over on the _Falcon_ was alright–Luke just slept a lot and otherwise was friendly with me, more friendly than I'd expected so soon. But as soon as we landed on the island, Luke got all wan and detached. I watch him sit cross-legged on the deck floor of our cabin, elbows resting on his knees, his shoulders slumped, smoking soft spice and staring listlessly at the woodgrain of the boards. I don't know if he's okay, but he's tired of me asking him that, so I stopped. His feet are bare because he hasn't really worn boots since we got here, maybe trying to get into the sandy island spirit. And though his clothes are of a loser, more summery cut and fabric than they were on Coruscant, he's still in black, with long sleeves covering the scars on his wrists. I know what they are, and I don't know if he knows I've seen them. I'm not gonna say anything about it. I know he's tried to kill himself more than once, and there's no use talking about it. It's in the past.

It's still weird for me to see him in black like this. When he was a kid he usually wore his khaki uniform, and when he wasn't, he wore a red sweater, or a brown jacket, and a few other things I can remember. I remember him in white like the patient's robes when I met him, when he glowed with idealism. But aside from one black shirt that he wore at formal occasions, like the Yavin ceremony, he never wore black. I guess he's been doing it for while, though–all his clothes are black, except a couple white undershirts and a dark grey tunic. It's like he thinks it will help him hide. Poor kid.

"You hungry?" I ask. It's getting on to noon, and I think I'm getting used to the twenty-eight hour day here, falling into a three-meal pattern like I can no matter how long or short the planet I'm on's day is.

Grey-blue eyes shoot towards me, eyes too big for Luke's thin face–but then, they've always been big, even when he was a more reasonable weight, but at least before he had long-ish hair which balanced them out. Now they dominate his features, and he looks very childlike and a little sickly. He seems startled, like he's jumping at shadows again, and I guess I scared him outta whatever he was thinking about. "What?"

"You hungry?" I repeat, turning in my deck chair to face him.

"Oh," he says softly. We talk about him eating–or not eating–a lot, though I try not to bring it up too much 'cause I know he's sensitive about it. But I also know he doesn't want to eat, so I gotta do something. I'm not gonna let him starve himself like an idiot. He takes one last pull on his stick and puts it out in a big seashell we been using for an ashtray. Blowing out the smoke, he says, "No. But I guess that's not the real question, is it?"

I shake my head. "Got that right." I rise and go inside the cabin's old wooden door to the comparatively modern kitchen unit and check our grocery condition. There's fish. Luke likes fish. Or he used to, back when he ate. My impulse is to go down to town to buy a bottle of wine to go with it and eat it on the deck while we look over the ocean–sounds like a vacation to me. But Luke's not supposed to drink. No drugs, the medics said. No spice, alcohol, even pain killers without a doctor's orders. He's at a dangerous stage where he could easily get dependant on other things to replace the sick spice. I might even be breaking the rules letting him smoke the soft stuff, but though cig sticks are addictive, aside from some long-term damage to your lungs, they can't hurt you. And I think it helps Luke control his cravings. Hell, it might be the only thing that keeps him from running off and buying hard spice in town, 'cause I'm sure you can get it there. You can get it anywhere people are.

So the wine's out, but there's fish. Some kinda local white fish. And there's greens and fresh bread. I don't know how Luke can turn down food like this–it's quality stuff. Leia gave us ridicules amounts of money for this trip 'cause she wants Luke to have a good time. And he'd better.

Half an hour later, we sit at the table on the deck eating lunch. Luke's eating, but slowly, like he doesn't want to but he knows he should. He pauses and lights another stick, sitting back in his chair to smoke it. That's the fifth one today–that's a lot for him. I notice his hand trembling as he holds it, and he looks paler than usual. "You okay?" I ask.

His eyes grow a little harder, but he doesn't lash out like he mighta three months ago. "I told you to stop asking me that."

"I know. But you're shaking."

He draws a deep breath, lets it out, and takes another drag before answering. "Withdrawal, you know–it comes and goes." He says it as if it's no big deal, but his voice breaks a little at the end and gives him away.

I don't say anything at first, 'cause I don't know what to say. What I want to do is grab him and hold him and make him stop shaking 'cause I hate seeing him like this. It drives me outta my mind that I have to just watch him and not do anything about it. There's nothing I can do. "There anything I can do?" I ask anyway.

He shakes his head. "Thanks, though." He's getting better about letting the good emotions to the surface, telling me what he means like he used to when he was a kid. He meets my eyes and lets himself smile a little. "I'm sorry–I'm scaring you." He puts out the stick and makes for the door. "I think I need to lie down for awhile."

I nod. So it's gonna be one of those days. At least these days seem to be getting fewer and farther between. "Do whatcha gotta do."

He nods but hesitates. "Um...Han...?"

"Yeah?"

He flushes ever so slightly. "Will you come with me? Just until I fall asleep? I...please...I don't want to be alone."

I smile to see him opening up, and also 'cause he's blushing like a farmboy. "Yeah," I say, and I leave the food on the table–who cares if little animals and bugs come and eat it?–and follow Luke to his room.

He pulls off the black linen tunic and lays on the bed, but when he sees me looking at his naked chest he scrambles, trembling, for the tunic again. I grab him gently by the shoulders and say, "Hey, Luke–it's okay."

He shakes his head. "You can _count_ my ribs..."

"So what? It's just me. Besides, you want to cover those ribs up, eat something."

"I'm trying," he says softly, sadly.

"I know. You're doin' fine. Take it easy."

He nods slowly. "I don't know what I'd do if you weren't..." He trails off, looking into my eyes. His blush is accompanied by an embarrassed smile, and he turns away.

I smile to see him happy, if even for a moment, a fraction of a moment. He lays on his bed over the covers–it's hot, which I know he loves–and makes enough room for me. We lay there and talk until he closes his eyes, and I wait until I'm sure he's asleep before I go.

But, gods dammit, he looks eighteen when he sleeps, like some kinda angelic kid. If his hair was still long and falling across his face, I might forget about the last ten–I guess it's closer to eleven, now–years. Poor Luke–he's like an angel trapped inside of a daemon. We'll get you back, kid.

* * *

I don't see Luke until the next morning, and he looks better. There's more color in his face and his eyes are brighter...but something's weird about them, too. I can't really put my finger on it. He's not shaking, which at first I think is a good thing, but he seems jumpier than usual instead. He walks into the common room of the cabin wearing the grey tunic and black pants with bare feet. He looks surprised to see me sitting on the couch reading over my messages on a data pad. He stops in his tracks, then smiles absently. "Oh...hi, Han." His voice is overly cheerful, like he's hiding something. 

"Hey," I say, following him with my eyes as he heads for the door. "You goin' somewhere?"

He shrugs. "Just for a walk."

He's gone before I can say anything else about it. I put down the data pad. Something's not right, here. He's acting really weird. I almost follow him, but for now I'll give him the benefit of a doubt. It's not like me getting all suspicious of him is going to help him at all.

About half an hour later the cleaning droid comes from the hotel that owns the cabin and asks if we need anything cleaned, or maybe to have our laundry done. I figure we might as well send some laundry with it, and I gather up a few things from my room. I almost don't go into Luke's room to gather his laundry 'cause it's his stuff and it makes me feel like I'm getting into his personal space, but I figure he's got nothing to hide and he could use some clean clothes. 'Sides, Luke just throws his clothes on the floor when he's done wearing them. It should be easy to tell what's dirty.

I go into his room and pick up the linen tunic from yesterday and a bunch of other black things scattered around. There's something in yesterday's pants' pocket, so I figure I have to take it out before I give them to the droid, but I'm not ready for what I find in the pocket.

I sit heavily on Luke's bed, where he and I had dozed last afternoon, where I'd thought he was resting most of the day yesterday. "Fuck," I murmur under my breath. "Gods fucking dammit, Luke. Three months. You wasted three months."

After a minute I realize that the droid is still waiting for me, so I set the box on Luke's bedside table and take him the laundry. It says it'll have them back in two hours. I hardly hear it.

* * *

When Luke comes home, I'm making dinner. I say hi quietly. I'm not gonna bring it up right away. He returns it and sits tiredly on the couch, which is right next to the kitchen. He's shaking again. He hugs his knees to his chest and buries his face in them, and I lean against the kitchen door, looking at him. That's why the withdrawal was worse yesterday than it'd been, and why he's so sick right now. 'Cause he's been taking spice again. That was why he was so chipper this morning–'cause he was spiced. It explains the bright but distant look I had seen earlier in his eyes, with the whites all red. "Where you been?" I ask casually. 

"I walked into town, and along the beach," he says, casually in turn.

"You sure you're up to that kind of stuff?"

He shrugs, giving me a week smile. "I felt better this morning."

I feel like I gotta hit this head-on, to be crewel to be kind. "Yeah. Spice does that to a spice addict."

His blue eyes get real big, maybe bigger'n I ever seen them, as he looks up at me. "What did you say?"

I take the box out of my pocket, and Luke pales to almost white. "What were you doing in my room?" he asks, casting his eyes away. There's anger in his voice, but he only looks sad.

"I was givin' your clothes to the cleaner droid. Didn't know you had anything to hide."

He squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face again.

I sigh and sit next to him, and I feel kinda like I'm giving one of the boys a talking-to after they get in trouble. "What happened, Luke? Three months–"

"I know," he breathes hurriedly. "I'm sorry, Han."

I shake my head. "No. It's not me you gotta apologize to. How many times did you get spiced?"

"Three."

"Luke, I thought you wanted this–"

"I do!" Luke exclaims. He sniffs and I can see the tears welling up in his eyes. He's so damn fragile right now but he usually keeps from crying. Maybe not this time. "But you don't know what it's like, Han! You have _no idea_! Now I not only have to deal with the past, but I have to be in _pain_ at the same time. I mean...I think I'm starting to come to terms with what happened. The past...five months have been nothing but that. But I went to town the other night when you were asleep–I tried to sleep, too, but I couldn't–and a dealer just seemed to find me. I wasn't looking–I swear! But once it was right there...I couldn't turn it down." He shakes his head and the tears come. "I'm sorry."

I can't be mad at him. It hurts too damn much to see him cry. 'Sides, he's only hurting himself. "I'm throwin' the box away," I say.

He nods eagerly. "Yeah," he says trough tears, "Throw it away."

I toss it into the disposal in the kitchen then sit back on the couch. He trembles with sobs and withdrawal, his head resting on his knees, his pants coming away a darker shade of black from tears.

Fuck it.

First I put an arm around him, and then as he leans into me I hold him tight with both arms, trying to make him stop shaking like I wanted to yesterday. He nestles his head into my chest, and finally the sobbing stops, and he's still. I squeeze him tight and kiss the top of his head–though I'm not sure if I should have. I guess so, 'cause it makes him snuggle in even closer. "Don't worry, kid. I got you," I whisper.

"It's just...I made it that much harder for myself. It's going to take me that much longer to recover. Just because I was weak." He finishes with such a disappointed tone in his voice that I don't know what to say.

"Yeah," I reply at last, rubbing my hand up and down his back. I can feel his ribs, but I try not to think about it. "It's gonna be real hard. But you can do it. You're stonger'n you think."

He shakes his head.

"Luke, you destroyed the first Death Star and you killed Darth Vader. Not to mention the things you did for the Alliance while you were taking care of little Ben."

"I don't like to be reminded about–"

"I know. But whether or not you're proud of those things, they took a lotta strength and courage. You can get past a spice addiction."

He's quiet and still for a long time, not shaking so long as I keep rubbing his back. "I'm different, now," he whispers.

I shake my head. "You only think you are."

* * *

We fall asleep holding each other on the couch after I make him eat dinner. When I wake up at dawn, he's gone. I can already tell it's gonna be a bright, sunny day–not a cloud in the sky. The kind of day Luke needs and deserves. 

I head down the wooded hill barefoot like Luke's been doing, the path under my feet a mix of white sand and fine, soft dirt. Before long I'm at the beach, and Luke's there sitting in the sand like I knew he'd be, watching the sunrise, no shirt and he doesn't seem embarrassed about his ribs. He turns to watch me sit beside him. We don't talk until the sun's up.

"Thank you," he says very softly when other noises, day-time noises like birds calling and kids from the resort yelling, start to happen. "For everything you did for me last night."

"You feel okay?" I ask. Withdrawal should be hitting him pretty hard, but he looks calm, peaceful even.

He smiles ironically. "You have _no_ idea how much my head hurts. But I'm okay. I'm...just trying to be brave and strong."

That's my boy.

"You help."

What the hell do you say to that? Good? You help me stay sane, too? I love you?

There's admiration in his eyes, which look bluer'n they have lately. He looks a lot like an eighteen-year-old now, like a fresh farmboy who I can memorize with anything I do or say. I shake my head. Stupid kid.

I stand, looking out over the green ocean. "Wanna go for a swim before breakfast?"

Luke looks pretty scared. "I don't know how."

"Yeah you do. I taught you."

"I haven't been since then–that was ten years ago."

I smirk, holding out my hand to pull him up. "So I'll re-learn you."

He stares at my hand but doesn't take it.

"C'mon, kid," I coax. "Be brave."

He flashes me a bemused smile before taking my hand, and I pull him to the water.

The End


End file.
